


Redemption is Red

by Avafician



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Albeit a pretty messed up one, Alcohol, Blood, Harsh Language, Redemption, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avafician/pseuds/Avafician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I heard there's a nice reward for bringing you fellas in."<br/> "Maybe we could, erm, work something out, mate?"</p><p>What happens when an ex-outlaw seeking hero's work comes across one deadly job worth $25,000,000? He bites off more than he can chew. (Meant to explore a twisted Junker redemption arc of sorts, founded on their mutual history of outlaw-ism shared with Jesse, who doesn't get involved voluntarily.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

** **

 

** \- P r o l o g u e - **

 

Red was many things. A crisp apple fresh off the tree, a rosy kite standing stark in a blue sky, the Arizonan dirt making up the landscape of timeless western canyons. After a visit to the local pub, red was flushed cheeks and a maroon serape haphazardly slung over the shoulders of one stale middle-aged man.  
  
Dangerous, risky, an absolute death wish and utterly insane. These were perfect words to describe the idea brewing in the mind of this particular southerner.  
  
A borderline ghost town far from the main counties housed few residents, and still stood there to the day off the change of lost travelers in need of a bar and Inn. Those being the only two buildings still open out of the plethora of older places. And these two establishments had been visited by Jesse in order. The older man found himself in the cramped, dark room of a rickety motel, or “Not So Best Western” as he might put it. It was an old structure founded from maple wood, dressed with dusty framed paintings and had two beds for couples. Plus a withered desk and wicker chair. Which was where he currently reclined.  
  
Documents were shuffled and thumbed with a rough gloved hand and fine-crafted mechanical one. The papers in hand looked like another criminal report, which he was often mailed when somebody wanted someone taken care of without actual authorities getting involved. This looked like the case when he peeled the envelope open, but was immediately swept with cold contempt. Brown eyes scanned over the print, hastier to drink in all the information they could as they went on. A couple of global criminal masterminds under the sharp title “Junkers” had been storming the nations, plucking ancient treasures worth more than he'd sure ever made. This was no news. The alarming factor was after their previous raid in Dorado, now there was a rise in sightings of them in the states. Namely the borders around New Mexico, but finding them would be one hell of a stunt.  
  
There was a reason the price tag on both their heads was $25,000,000. There was a reason these two got away with thieving some of the world's most prized artifacts and were still on the run. Jesse was used to paid work from folks in need coming to him. He did deeds he deemed just, even if the reward was little. But this was no poor beggar at his doorstep offering a shiny nickel to run off brutes who thought they ran the town; this was a hundred times more likely to get his head as a trophy in these goon's foyer. Or, someone else's foyer they purged and set up shop in.  
  
Panning his attention away from the files, Jesse assessed the maple of the Inn's interior. Light from the drawn curtain on his left side bled into a crack of the room and was the only light he had to see by, which cast deep shadows across his un-groomed face. This was far from the best living; doing blackmarket hero's work just so he would no longer be associated with Blackwatch. Bunch of selfish disorganized bastards. He couldn't complain about jumping from Inn to Inn because it wasn't the worst. But oh, could it be better. Was it time matters started looking up? Not to mention how much good could twenty-five million do for the public in this dark time for humanity as it recovered from a recent mile-long list of tragedy?  
  
Maybe it was the lingering haze of several cheap shots of whiskey driving him to a decision, or maybe he was just that crazy. But as the doer of justice folded the reports away in squares, he held one thing in mind; he was going to rise to this calling, or get blown to bits trying.


	2. Three-Part Plan

CHAPTER 1

Red was all the best things in life. It was dangerous glowy bits and triggers and red hot death blazing destruction in its wake in the form of raging fire. 

“Place is sure the big smoke, Hog. Would sure love ta' see it goin' up in big smoke!” The blond fell into one of his pitched giggle fits, releasing a charred index from the button of a customized walkie-talkie that fit as longingly as a detonator. The pun earned a breathy sigh heaved under static on the other end which meant Roadhog was still in position. Nobody caught wind of their presence yet, and that meant he was clear to continue.

For where the two crooks were situated (on opposite ends from each other) was the current largest bank in the whole of New Mexico. A staggering three stories high of plaster wall, glass panel, and some of the densest innards to prevent theft. Like that ever stopped them. But Roadhog was busy holding the fort up front, laying low around the entrance, and would create a diversion when the time rose to crack the case. Literally, and preferably with a deafening ka-boom.

Jamison had his hands full not just with the communication device he promptly slung back into the strap at his waist, but occupied with the devil's handiwork. He busied himself setting the first steps of their next brilliant heist into action around the back alley of the building where there were no signs of watching eyes. The security camera? Done away in seconds. No witnesses would be able to say they saw this coming. Currently 'this' entailed marking the spot they'd want to blow through as an escape route. One explosion here and this wall was down. But no sense in leaving a gaping hole yet, in case authorities showed up to block it. The first step to a three-part plan would be getting in, and getting his hands on all the unfathomably glorious goods under lock and key and lock and key and another lock inside. Maybe stuff a few stacks in the pockets before Roadhog showed up so he'd have more than a 50% share leftover.

Jamison eyed the ceiling. Make one swift move up there, blow the roof, dive on in and make sure he minded the multiple stories because his peg nearly shattered last time. Why did they always rob places so deathly tall?

Producing a grapple and hook he'd come prepared with from the bag slung around jutting hipbones, Jamison built momentum before launching it up to the edge of the tiled roof without miss, tested the give, ground the heel of a combat boot into plaster, followed by the dig of his narrower makeshift leg. For many others, traversing the side of a triple-story bank with one leg and a toothpick would result in fall after fall until an arm was broken. But maneuvers like this were commonplace for the evasive thief. It hadn't been a minute and he was on the roof's flat, huffing for breath. Jamison grabbed the talkie again, “Oi'm about ta blow the lid on this place. You'd best hustle if we're gonna make the division a clean one.” He stiffed a laugh, “Well. Clean _er_.”

Again, there was no amusement in the garbled “I'm on it,” following from the other end and this meant their timer was active; there wasn't more than a minute to spare until the place blew into a scene, so he had to slip inside stealthily. Ha, like that was his forte. Loud and quick worked just as well. Therefor the crazed madman pulled one of his absolute favorites from the deep reaches of his cargo: a concussion mine. Just the sight alone almost distracted himself from the objective at hand as he chortled in delight while setting it in position above the main safe they'd learned the location of from snagged blueprints. It was hard, but Jamison had to wait until there was a sign Roadhog created a diversion by making a scene to intimidate the tellers and customers, probably by holding them up, punching someone out, hooking a guy if they tried something funny. It was almost torture having to stand there with a tick of anticipation, mine a safe distance, and tantalizingly red detonator in hand and not pressed it until given a sign much like a dog ordered to balance bones on its snout until given the O.K that wouldn't come quick enough.

Until it did, when there were people running frantic through slammed-open bank doors, and Jamison didn't hesitate for even half a second before slamming his thumb down on the dangerous red switch and sending the roof up in a column of blinding fire coupled with an earth-shattering **_BANG!_**


	3. Under the Bar Business

** CHAPTER 2 **

After days almost exclusively walking, red was the patches of sunburns sported by the cowboy's cheeks from when he used his hat as a fan rather than shade from all the heat under clothes that were warm even in winter.

What a happy coincidence this turned out to be. Well, not happy so much as convenient because this was nothing if not treacherous. Whispers on the road told that these two hoodlums wriggled into the very place he himself hailed from: New Mexico. Where better to drag the two to justice and claim the most loot he'd obtained in all his years?

Albuquerque, Jesse had been told by another underground informant when seeking more information on this secretive bounty hunt. Right now, he stood poised at the outskirts of the town, far enough in the evening to return his hat to his head and block the setting sun silhouetting grand spires of skyscrapers and buildings of varying sizes in the near distance. He hadn't strolled through this scape in years, and these terms were not exactly what he'd expected to pay a visit on.

Lifting one boot after the next, he began a slow-paced gaunt that started from a dusty, empty back-road to bring him to the walk beside a busy street, his garb earning suspicious stares from other pedestrians who were dressed more appropriately for the weather. And time period. He didn't mind though, because compliments weren't what he was after. It was information. And around here, he knew a guy who'd tell him where these two were slinking. Fella didn't meddle in legal business but if you paid the right price, he might lend you all the hot gossip to do it yourself. Even better, the guy set up shop at a bar as if it weren't the most cliché place for sketchy business like this. Another round of alcohol to build his spirits for the showdown, though? Who was he to complain.

The city was no small one. Finding the right watering hole would be a trying feat for any newcomer. But he wasn't one. Jesse knew to take two rights, a left, a right, keep down the narrow path and hang a second left directly to a dark, shabby old bar-front that slammed him with the reek of cigars and spilled booze. There was old rock playing faintly on record in the back while a couple of scraggly ruffians dueled in silence over a game of pool, and a rowdier more inebriated bunch took up half the bar with slurred banter. Behind said bar, was a long old face pouring off a mug of beer to one of the loud men taking a bar stool. The bartender didn't seem as pleased as the other guy. Not until noticing Jesse pacing forward, taking a seat on the far end. That was when the man squinted without word and turned away to a vast selection of bottles, returning with a cup of whiskey he slid to the waiting hand of Jesse, who tossed back an immediate long swig.

“Well if it ain't McCree. Y'know, it's been a while! Where your grisly face been hiding?” His accent was thinly underlined in Scottish.  
“Plenty places.” He retorted simply.  
“Come on now, it's been years. Still looking for something pretty to pickpocket? You wouldn't believe some of the cargo that's crossed through—”

Jesse swatted the folded document upon the countertop, and there was a tense silence before the tender took it, opening it slow. His expression fell from something apprehensive, into tension. “You've got to be out a' yer right mind if ye think ya can catch these couple a' nuisances.”  
“Maybe I am.”  
“You got to be even crazier if ya think I know a thing 'bout 'em.”

As if it were routine, the next thing Jesse threw to the table was shiny currency that practically reflected in the greedy eyes of the swindler who slipped to the edge of the counter and motioned with his head for Jesse to follow him into the back; which was a dark hallway cluttered with papers and notes on the walls leading to an 'employee's only' door. There was hope after all—But it laid in Jesse's hands. He peaked around at the surrounding drunkards, making sure no one was paying too-close attention as he followed the bartender to the back, had the door opened for him and stepped into a tiny, unkempt little office with a desk on the far end, table and chairs in the middle with a messy game of poker abandoned on it.

“Sorry for the mess, don't use it so much no more. Now sit yer arse down, 'cause what I got on offer is more than I usually give out.” And so Jesse followed order, the other man taking the other side. “So. These two goons? Junkrat and Roadhog, is what they go by. Or Jamison Fawkes, Mako Rutledge. Absolute brutal criminals with morals in the negatives, they are. And been blazin' through country after the next stealin' all kinds a treasured goods left an' right, too.”  
“Got that,” Jesse snapped, “I'm lookin' to find where they're hidin'.”  
“Oh, silly me. You didn't specify that bit.” He batted both eyes coyly and Jesse sneered before tossing another handful of shiny tokens forward, which the man slid into his pocket, then paused. “Hmm... Whiskey wasn't free too, y'know.”  
“Where are these criminals?”  
“Oh, they're in town for sure. Last I heard they were sluggin' their way out of sight from the feds, navigatin' the shadows in the rougher side of town. Where they at right now? That I can't help ya with. My guess is scopin' the most valuable thing an' makin' a getaway as we speak.”

Wow, what a help.

Suddenly, unforeseen, and as if on perfect cue, something rumbling far away shook the poker checkers, then died off. Both of the two froze before leaning back in confusion, glancing around as if that would answer what the hell it was. Both men looked caught unawares but they knew what was going on if they knew two rowdy junkers were making themselves at home in the area. Jesse bolted onto his feet from the chair, hand already on the door, “Where do you think you're goin'? You still owe me for the hootch!”

“My bad,” Jesse swept over swift as a spirit who ghosted his hand across the man's pocket and was back at the door quick as he left, tipped his hat, made his leave. Yet when the tender checked, he was missing more coins than he'd been given. And if he slammed the door open to pursue the old 'friend', he'd find he was already gone. Outside, in fact, staring deadpan at the rising plume of smoke between buildings a block down.


	4. Going up in Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: when referring to Junkrat and Roadhog as Jamison and Mako, it is meant to be read through their POV. Whereas if McCree is referred to as Jesse, it's through his eyes.
> 
> Resume fic!

** CHAPTER 3 **

Everything was red. And yellow and orange and fire for a few glorious seconds ripping around Jamison's soot-caked figure as he rushed to meet the tile floor almost thirty feet below.

He rolled to a kneel and assessed the peg: good as it came, this time. Potential burns weren't a thing worth fretting over either to the man practically numb with singed nerve-ends. Good thing too, otherwise the plummet through a plume of dancing flame would not have been a comfy one. Now the man stood with hair licked in flames—his descent speedy enough so his body didn't join it—at the center of a room with a generously huge safe. Memories, this brought back. Of all the ones they'd cracked before and this one would be no different. One last mine ought to do it.

Thus Jamison didn't waste a second getting it fixed to the safe, everything in the right place, standing back, covering his already-damaged ears from the explosion before he sounded a second one.

This time the room was flooded with debris, soot, dander, heat. Jamison couldn't help but cough and gag as sediment filled his lungs, but his retching turned into elated chortles when the man turned to eye the hatch knocked awry, twitching with joy as he loped up toward it, pulled it back, met the angelic sight of millions of dollars right there before his very eyes, ripe for the picking. Nearly worth more than he was, though not quite.

Living up to his self-promise, the junker stuffed a wad or two or four in his bag before the sound of cumbersome steps carried behind him followed the boom of another door blown in from his chaperon's theatrical entrance. The door sensible workers used to access this room instead of blowing the roof down, probably. Not much fun they were.

“Not bad, Jamison. But we can't tote the spoils nowhere without an exit.” Roadhog patronized his boss who looked thoughtful, trying to recall what came next without showing it. He was failing. There was one more step, what was—

“Ah! Marked it before we even started! Should be, eh, that wall?” He pointed left, and Mako was not pleased with a 'should be'. Nonetheless, that didn't stop Junkrat from feeling for the tire strapped to his back, yanking up to throw it down, pointed directly at the wall. “Fire in the hole!” He blurted routinely like he'd gotten in the habit of, revving the chain to send it racing towards the surface and explode with tremendous force on impact. Him and Roadhog both ducked away from the rubble as the wall blew out and smoke cleared to reveal their smooth and undiscovered getaway. One last step and they were home free!

“Roight! Now bring the truck 'round back an' let's load up quick, before the coppas pull up!”

“It ain't the cops you fellas best worry 'bout.”

Unfamiliar chills ran down the vertebrae of the demolitionist and the more murderous of the two got an awful knot in his gut as they both turned in unison to confront the man standing at the other open end of the room. Though his face was obscured by the long shadow of a western hat cast from harsh overhead fluorescence, perhaps his most striking feature was the red of a serape standing in contrast with the rest of his duller uniform.

“Look a little lost, pipsqueak.” Roadhog's gruff voice reverberated behind his mask. Glancing from under his visor, it was only now that Jesse questioned if he'd bitten of more than he could chew. The first man and shorter of the two was a squirrely fellow rigged with probably-live explosives on several parts of his person, and gear galore beyond that. His damn hair was singed, aflame, and there was nothing that screamed 'safety' about this stranger. Nor sanity. The second person, well, he couldn't see the eyes of, but knew behind those soot-fogged lenses was an expression hinting the man knew death as a personal friend and didn't fear it. Just how many people had their necks crushed by those too-big hands? These thoughts were not voiced or even hinted by Jesse's unwavering smug expression.

“Look a little lost, yourselves. Tell me boys, what brings you through my hometown on this evenin' that was so perfect before you blew it?” he thought he heard a little giggle from the scrawny one at the implied pun that soared right over Jesse's head. “More importantly, how do ya'll think you'll keep gettin' away with it when you're the most wanted men in the country?”

“Wot's it to you?” Junkrat bit back, “We been doin' this shit for years an' are gonna keep at it for plenty more!”

“Cocky, aren't we? Then I guess I'm sorry to smother your fun before it gets started.” And this feigned apology couldn't be more blatant a lie, but was underlined as one when the man drew a blink-and-you-miss-it pistol from the holster beneath the heavy fabric draped about his figure. The two looked puzzled for just as brief a moment, before the lankier man absolutely busted out laughing and his accomplice followed in throaty suit.

“Hog, why don't ya pull that load around, yeah? I'll take this one into me own hands.” Roadhog seemed both amused, and happy to oblige by taking their messily crafted exit to make a dash for this out-of-sight getaway vehicle and Jesse was torn between who to go after. Guess he'd start with this runt. Who he shouldn't be calling a runt because as he lumbered up to him while yanking out some crudely crafted weapon of sorts, he stood several inches taller than Jesse. “Must'a got a lotta self-confidence if ya think you can take a couple a pros like ourselves out,” The junker crooned all while popping open one of the canisters from his harness to load some shoddy form of launcher with rounded red ammunition. He would have made an immediate shot before the other could with whatever those were, but with aim like himself, he had all the time in the world. And curiosity restraining his finger from the trigger.

“I've done my share a' hero's work. Ain't tonight gonna be no different. Now, what is it that brings you couple'a crooks here _specifically_?”

“More money than ya can stuff a horse with, what do ya think? Sailed int'a Arizona, hopped over one measly state. Gonna nab all the goods we cross if we can! An' y'know, I'd like to hurry this up, but I got a question too: how'd you know 'bout us bein' here?”

“You mean aside from sendin' this place up in smoke? I got sources. You been getting' more popular. More valuable. An' more people got an eye on your activity. I'm just here on their behalf.” A curt grin graced his bearded face and punctuated the lit cigar between straight white teeth, “An' that crisp several-million.”

He was focused on the confusion, then horror spreading on the others' sharp features, until Jesse wished he'd saved the interrogation for later, because there was a thick blast from the other man's weapon, and a palm-sized cherry hurdling toward him. Lucky for him, the cowboy rolled out of the way and into a kneel as it bounced against the back wall once, an amusingly clear miss, and now Jesse didn't dare hold back by unloading multiple rounds at the brat evading every fire with drastic bounds, threatening to escape through the gaping hole in the wall as what looked like an ice cream truck rolled up outside...? This didn't distract him from making the final shot, and a single bullet fired with satisfying accuracy into his target's lower left side leaving the crook keeled in a startled lurch, gagging. Jesse, pleased by his work, took a solid step forward to finish the job before the man was already scrambling away, yet bore the most enthused grin he expected to see. Like there was a secret he'd been told that Jesse wasn't in on. And as the truck pulled up outside, Junkrat hobbled to the exit and right as Jesse readied to pursue him, the blond man waved over his shoulder and called “Have a nice day!” quite artificially.

Something else snagged the cowboy's attention.

The bounce of the red object from before sounded from behind him, and the man pivoted on a heel to watch as it had rebounded from the wall, to the floor, arced ever-so-slowly in the air to ricochet off the toe of his boot and suddenly the force of a cannonball drenched in lit gasoline tore the world down in noise until he couldn't hear, there was fire, too much, and the brightness of an explosion died with the rolling darkness encompassing his vision as his singed body collapsed the middle of the room. Unbeknownst to a limp Jesse sprawled maybe dead, maybe unconscious on the ground, the hum of a motor rolled away and left the blare of nearing sirens in their wake.

Good guys didn't always win.

But when that humming motor made an abrupt return accompanied by faint bickering... Maybe they would live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm just gonna leave this off here! I'll be updating weekly and will hopefully have the 4th chapter out come the end of the weekend. Thanks for giving this a look!


	5. Not so Bad But Still Pretty Bad

**CHAPTER 4**

Everything was black.

Blistering, all-consuming heat that smothered everything he knew was the last thing Jesse remembered. Yet what he woke to was on the far opposite spectrum.

Bitter cold bit every inch of him left exposed, and teethed everywhere else. His lips, ears, and nose tingled numb, and each slow breath drawn from air made of ice sent pinpricks through his lungs. As consciousness slowly came to the man in teetering wavers, he dared crack open both eyes. Which didn't do him much better, considering the dark surrounding blur he was confronted with. Jesse tried to rub the sleep from his eyes—only to find two things: his arms were bound by something tight and pinching, and the strain sent static fire all throughout the sore framework of his aching body. The man winced, grunted, tried to get a bearing on the hazy surroundings. His head was throbbing and each thought collected alongside every metronome pulse, but now he was able to see that he was within some kind of frozen chamber with doors on the far end from him. They looked like they'd been torn off then offhandedly welded back on, and just beyond them, wind ripped outside, muting distant sirens. It was also worth noting how violently he was being jostled (and had been since rousing), plus the passing streetlights through the back windows of this apparent vehicle suggested they were on the road. He noticed an eye-catching excess of bags stuffed in one corner to the icicle-tipped ceiling, and the loose bills littered around them as though each crisp something-dollar bill meant nothing. But he was mainly curious about the temperature of this car and the coolers to the side and winced at the faint memory of the ice cream truck and oh god he wished that explosion killed him.

He was a hostage. Not only had he failed at pacifying the two madmen, but now he was like a shiny bug in a jar for two children who loved to poke and prod. This wouldn't and couldn't end in his favor.

 _Get it together, Jesse_ , he thought to himself as if it would fix the situation. There were only a few things for certain to keep him anchored to reality and it was that he was in the back of an ice cream truck, speeding off who-knew-where, and looking down, was bound in impolitely tight chains. And—where was his hat? That's what really jarred palpitations from his heart like mad, only ceasing when he spotted it carelessly thrown aside near the tarnished leather of the boots on his feet, and... Were the corners singed? Oh, these hooligans were gonna get it before but now they were good as dead. When he was released, that was. Which, could be any time, but preferably before he froze among possibly millions of dollars and ice cream. Not the worst death for some.

When bellowing laughter from the front of the truck struck his ears was when he paid a glare over-shoulder.

Mako wasn't frequent to laughter, but when he laughed, it split his sides and practically shook their last-minute getaway vehicle as it sped under a bridge, further from the searching eye of authorities.

“An' the dill thought he had a chance! Said we can't keep goin' like this foreva. Thought he'd stop us 'cause he got some fancy cape an' hat? Looked like he walked fresh outta the 20th century! Brought'm down with just one bomb, I did!” Jamison proudly concluded his fisherman's tale with a show of hands and trademark laugh.

“Sure's pathetic,” Mako growled in good humor, then lulled into a more serious tone he picked up after a long pause to let Jamison finish guffawing, “But tell me why you thought dragging him with us was a good idea.”  
“Oh yeah. Eheheha, guess I still gotta to clear that up, too.” He twiddled organic and prosthetic fingers with an antsy gnaw to the bottom lip, “Bloke said somethin' 'bout some word a' mouth spreadin' our location to rotten do-gooders like him. Thought we could pummel a few names outta the guy an' make future heists all the easier.” He earned an agreeable grunt from Mako, followed by another thick silence that drove the jittery man's nerves up a wall. It was hard to tell how Mako was going to react sometimes because he was either at a 0 or a 10, and there were seldom in-betweens.

“We can't keep doing this so recklessly, Jamison. He managed one good point.” Mako grumbled deeply, solemnly.  
“Wot? 'Course we can! We been doin' it this long without a blip in the system an' we'll be able to do it for as long as our skins are intact!”  
“And if we keep being careless, they won't be intact. All I'm sayin' is after this, we got enough to get by. Might be wise to drop low until this blows over more. Can't imagine who all's gonna after us as our price climbs.”  
“Never thought you'd be the first one chickening out.”

If Mako's hands weren't on the wheel, Jamison knew those mitts would be wrung around his neck, squeezing black spots into his vision. But instead, shadowed eyes from behind fogged lenses stared daggers through him and hidden lips were probably creased in a snarl. Jamison didn't take it back, though. He drove the heart of every operation, called the shots, and got the lead say in what they did whether he knew best or not. After that, the silence was thick and undisturbed as Mako drove them farther out of town into the late night, Junkrat eventually resorting to meddling with sketches of explosives in the works like they were a Sudoku page because lord knew the man couldn't sit still.

Meanwhile, Jesse sat in just as deep a silence. All he could do was wait, lay on the floor, look out the window until they got to Location Wherever. And try to come to terms with this outcome.

When they did get to 'Wherever', Jesse wasn't near as enthusiastic about it as he thought he'd be.

In fact, as the truck rolled to a rocking halt, realization struck like a thunder bolt that they were probably going to stop and check in on him, and this left two options: go back to playing possum, or make an attempted escape. The latter was more dimwitted, but he was _seething_ to give these two what they had coming even if they deflected it right back.

“Still ain't used to these drongos drivin' on the wrong side a' the road,” Jamison snorted, determined to lighten the mood after hopping out of the right side. Mako followed with the car shifting under his weight with a solid thud to the ground, but he didn't respond. Just began to shift around back, and this drove unease through Junkrat's innards as he fidgeted with his hands again before following suit. “D'you think he's alive? Looked a crispy, bruised mess last time we saw'm.”

Mako's gloved hand accentuated by rings grasped for the handle of the back door, but Junkrat's antsy self swept in to do the amiable honors by prying it open with a click and pulling the door back—getting a heel driven with crushing might right to the very center of his forehead.

“Ach!” The Aussie blurted in shock, knocked to the ground with a flesh hand clutching the throbbing spot dearly. Roadhog rebounded from the surprise and ogled back at the southerner now standing, bound, and adapting a fighter's stance. In truth, it was an awfully pathetic sight.

 _“S'what you get for barbecuin' a man's fashion!”_  
  
A top priority among mass theft and arson.  
  
Mako didn't think twice before extending one trunk of an arm out and taking the man by the head, and suddenly McCree was out of the car, in the air, struggling against a pained wry dragged from the hollow of his throat. After recovering, Junkrat sat up from the ground with an offended scowl, and hopped right back onto a booted foot and peg just as hastily.

“Wot're you on about? You're lucky ya didn't straight-up bite tha dust back there. Just about did, if it weren't for Roadhog an' his... healin'... inhaler bullshit. Ya really owe it to the big guy, prolly why I ain't it worse shape, either.” Jamison digressed, glancing pointedly at the mark where McCree's bullet once punctured, already healing over.  
“Dead, stuck with a couple a' convicts, point me to the difference.” Thick digits crushed harder around McCree's skull and he restrained a groan in agony until Jamison called him off.  
“Not worth the effort mate, put 'em down!” Thus Mako roughly obliged by letting Jesse fall a foot and a half to the earth, and he wished he were able to soothe his head that felt naked without a hat. He groaned a moment before shooting a venomous glare at the two thugs now looming over him. From this standpoint, maybe the best thing he could do was clear his throat and regain what composure he had before.

“Boys, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” Jesse began.  
“Well I only got one, so I'm fresh outta options” Guess who, joked.  
“What happened back there was outright sloppy, plain an' simple. I say you untie me and we square off like real gentlemen. The way things should'a been handled.”  
“Gentlemen? 'Square off'? You hear that, Roadhog? Tosser must think we're a couple a' idiots!”

Mako was the one to loom like a skyscraper blocking near all moonlight above McCree, who if he were sensible, would have been overwhelmed by the urge to shy away despite not so much as blinking.

“We aren't lettin' you out of those chains for a second. Not when you got valuable information in that little head a' yours.” The titan of a man thrummed so deep it made Jesse's ribcage vibrate.  
“Plus a hostage would do us good! Keep bounties off our hide when an innocent could get mangled in the process.” Junkrat made his point and McCree could draw the conclusion he was not leaving any time soon. (But when he did, oh, were they gonna get an earful. Of lead.)

Jesse had nothing he could do to better the situation, so all he did was stew a hard boiled scowl and leave it at that. Junkrat and Roadhog addressed each other.

“Aside from this git, what's the camping arrangement?” Despite the fact that their surroundings were dim, it was clear they were dead in the middle of a red-dirt field, an empty highway far to one side and hidden by shrubbery, a rocky cliff on the other side. If police strolled through, they'd miss them. But Junkrat's question went answered by Roadhog when he returned to the back of the truck to uncover twin sleeping bags, tossing them at the ground near where Jesse still sat. He obviously wasn't spending the night in another affordable hotel, so where would it be instead? Looked a lot like dirt right now. _His_ question was answered when the bigger brute, Roadhog he guessed (as if the tattoo encompassing the globe of his stomach was nothing to go by) sauntered up and Jesse may have recoiled a tad.

“As for this guy? He already been acquainted with the back of the truck. Why don't we stuff'm back in and see what he looks like in the morning.” Jesse's blood froze at the thought of it freezing literally. It wasn't _that_ cold but coming from one of the hotter regions in the nation, it sure felt that way. He was blatantly apposed to the idea but Junkrat had him outvoted.  
“I like the sound a' that!”  
Jesse's adam's apple bobbed with a swallow. “You treat all your cargo like this? My pretty face is worth just s'much as all that stolen cash in the back.” He teased. But Roadhog, despite squatting close enough to eye level where Jesse could just barely make out the outline of squint silver irises, didn't see eye-to-eye. Roadhog hadn't shut the back door from earlier and so he simply scooped Jesse up by the organic arm and slung him into the back of the van, latched it before he could wriggle back out. Then shifted to leer down at his companion who was sitting up tucked in one of the sheeny green fabric pods, only his face poking out from the bag.

“I like him.”

Jesse couldn't say the same about the others. Now he was back to the frigid interior of a vehicle meant to deliver joy and sweets to children that was now his prison he'd have to spend the next dragging hours of the night inside. Hopefully none of his more mechanical parts froze over, that would be a nasty bind. Why was this more nerve-wracking than any deadly showdown or gun show he'd been involved in? Maybe it was because enduring searing bullet wounds while a tumbleweed strolled by wasn't only what he was used to, but how he envisioned going out. Everything about this situation was alien, routed from two irradiated junkers armed with either deadly explosives, or spine-snapping hooks. They were like an entirely different species. A species that made him feel so distressingly out of control. None of it set well with Jesse, and neither did the ice creeping back through his clothes like an old friend he hadn't missed.

What made it worse was he didn't know what they were capable of, or what they had planned. He hadn't given them the answers they'd requested so did that mean he was good as garbage, or were they patient enough to wait for him to spill his withheld facts? If he finally did fess up to the origins of his sources, would they wait to spill his guts? These were trying questions and this was the first time in a while where Jesse genuinely felt like a fish out of water. Maybe even afraid, if his ego didn't eclipse the truth. Perhaps it was just time to accept the worst. However he died, it would be at these savage's hands and he could kiss his freedom, life, goodbye.

The click of the back door handle jostled the shivering cowboy to alertness, who just barely nodded up enough to see a burly hand poke through, holding out a crumpled sleeping bag. When Jesse didn't reach to take it (mostly because his hands were bound) it dropped unceremoniously to the floor and the door shut behind it. He noted there had only been two bags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out, oops. I have a webcomic that was on Hiatus which came back this week! it's about gods, their quirked politics, and a bunch of fun mysteries which you can read here if that sounds interesting: http://tobeaprotector.thecomicseries.com/about/
> 
> Speaking of comics, I drew one up for this chapter of Junkrat and Roadhog's first interaction! You can read that one at this link: http://avafaidian.tumblr.com/image/147116790305
> 
> As always, thank you so much for giving this a read! Catch the fallout of McCree's current predicament next week!


	6. All According to Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry this took so long! It's unbelievable how busy I've been but the next chapter is here now. Actual plot will happen soon, so for now, enjoy!

** CHAPTER 5 **

Course dirt over bumpy earth, soft pallet, where was the difference, really. This played on repeat in Mako's mind to convince himself giving up his initial sleeping spot was worth it, due to a certain jittery blond who couldn't sleep because 'What if the hostage caught a cold and died? We'd never know who's sellin' us out!' Mako knew that was bullshit. So did Jamison. In all likelihood, the runt probably felt a twinge of guilt for what they did because in the face of being OK with stealing treasured artifacts, blowing through cities, topped with being downright batshit mad, he was human at the core. _Too_ human at times. And, especially with Jamison's size, it was easy to forget who was in charge and could convince you to give up your sleeping spot for an imprisoned stranger. Damn brat.  
  
Mako's slept in worse places, and this was one of the better. Morning broke not long ago, and he still lingered in the fog of rest; a shard of his consciousness awake and nagging the rest of him to get up too. Out of the two junkers, he was almost always the first to rouse unless a pillage was particularly demanding of him. Mako was the type early to bed, early to rise while Jamison did as he pleased and let his waste of a body dictate when he did what. When the older of the junkers finally cracked both eyes open behind lenses fogged with the sweeping dust carried on the desert's breeze, he reached up with two gloved mitts to rub the film away like he would his own eyes. After blinking into focus, he was greeted with the sight of early morning light bleeding over peaks of surrounding cliff sides, casting harsh beams as the sun threatened to poke over them, basking the sky in a watercolor painting of warm reds and yellows. Mako grunted at the back of his throat, sat up on two callous palms, searched for his partner.  
  
The twitchy mess was found to his immediate left curled up on his side like a caterpillar that died mid-writhe; drool and tongue poking from his lips crunched against the ground. Out like a light and probably would be for another hour, if the sun which had rose but wasn't visible yet behind surrounding red cliffs was something to go by. After locating the kid and assured he was well, the first thing on the mind was breakfast. Except today he had two mouths to feed if their hostage hadn't died in the night from frostbite and lingering wounds.  
  
The pitifully sleepy human Armageddon eyed their pink destruction vehicle from afar. They'd made it into a makeshift getaway truck for the time-being while in the states because one attempt to rob some vanilla cones turned into the police on their asses and nowhere to run. So they hijacked the car, made some adjustments, and voila. Freezer in the back still worked and wouldn't shut off, but it did good at preserving food, so no real loss. This came as no surprise either because whether they'd admit it or not, this wasn't their first ice cream truck.  
  
From here, the next step was getting up. Which Mako took his time doing by stretching with every motion and pop of each joint until he was on two feet. The massive man drew a wheezy breath through the filters fixed to what may as well have been his face. He huffed, then crossed the distance to access the van. It took one swift jab of thumbs to the lock on the back, and the double doors obediently popped open. After the fog that billowed out and collected around his boots, what confronted him from the inside very much looked like a body bag and he might have known from experience. McCree was swaddled into a lump at the back, unmoving. Thus the junker gradually leaned inside, gave the figure a generous thump with the spiked back of his hand a few times to wake the (hopefully) slumbering cowboy.  
  
There was motion, a tired mumble just barely made out, and the bag rolled over as a zipper tediously undid itself to unveil a live but not lively cowboy leaning afar to meet the shadow of a man blocking the exit. The southerner flinched just barely, then looked past Mako's shoulder at the brighter outside world like he was surprised he made it until morning. Now the massive man was actually stepping inside the truck. Going by McCree's tense expression, it was easy to tell he was prepared to get the wind kicked out of him, or the hook he'd surely heard tales about lop his head off clean. Instead, the titan of a man tended some kind of cooler on the other side of him. Following from there was a heavy silence that McCree felt compelled to break.  
  
“Why the selfless gesture last evenin'?”  
“Don't go getting' used to it.” Mako's retorted as abruptly as the other spoke, as though he'd already prepared an answer, “You've got some information on your person that could save our skins. Condemn others. And my partner Jamison is too much a soft-skin at times.”  
“Partner? Like partner-partner?”  
“In crime.” Mako snarled back, finding what he intruded for in the first place in the form of a handful of packaged chocolate-dipped fudgesicles. Yet, despite Jamison being the 'soft-skin', the giant still bothered tossing one at McCree's feet as he hopped out of the truck with a heavy thud. He left the back doors ajar, maybe purposely, then trailed towards a sleeping Jamison in an attempt to wake him up by nothing other than dumping the chilly delivery clear on top of him.  
  
  
It took a second of stirring, proceeded by an immediate two seconds of “AGH MATE WOT THE FUCK?!” The lanky junker exclaimed, putting on an arguably hilarious show of flailing about like a bass fresh out the river under the frozen weight of frost-bitten goods and remembering through trial and error that he was zipped into a sleeping bag, desperately fumbling to free himself and roll off to the side with an agitated storm of grumbling. Jamison's hair was more of a mess than before, and he'd removed his harness, but still donned the same blotchy camo shorts. Though the peg usually jutting from one knee was missing and everything had been discarded in a messy mound off to the side. The tarnished arm still remained because taking that off was a complicated, almost surgical procedure. It hooked to the nervous system thus its removal was not only painful, but getting it back on took more time and work than it was ever worth. Only now did he notice what Roadhog delivered, and a 'V' shaped grin snaked its way ear-to-ear. “Oh, ta!”  
  
Mako plopped down cross-legged and peeled the wrapper off with care, while Jamison tried tearing it with his hungry gnashers, grunting like some kind of animal trying to skin the flesh of a gazelle. As though he weren't the type to eat the wrapper if he were hungry enough.  
  
“What're you two plannin' on doin' with me.” McCree voiced it more as a demand than a question as if he held any authority here. Mako and Jamison both threw their attention at him, exchanged nervous glances because they both knew they hadn't settled on a real plan. 'You said you'd come up with one, ya lug' The scrawnier one would say if they weren't being watched. 'You did too, look who's talking' Taller Heavier and Scarier would spit right back.  
  
“Looks like somebody's up an' at em'! Get a good night's rest, friend?” Jamison tossed their captive the most crooked shit-eating grin. Not because he was cocky, but because he'd been gorging on fudgsicles. The scrawnier junker felt sweat mingle with the gunpowder down his back at the faint glint of scowling eyes meeting him from the back of the van. “We got a plan, sure! What're you accusin' us a'? Bein' the two ruthless brutes who don't got a plan? We don't fit that description, make no mistake. 'Cause when it comes ta' plans, we're the men with em'! Lots'a plans,”  
“You're sticking with us. We're laying low until sightings sweep over and having a hostage will heighten the stakes for any committers of hate crimes.”  
“Whoa, wait, wot? 'Lay low'? Who's in charge here? We got plenty more work cut out fer us an' with him, them law enforcements will be way more careful 'bout when they got their guns out!”  
“We need to lead them off our trail. There's always more treasures up for grabs, it ain't goin' nowhere. What's wrong with skipping town?”  
“Skippin' town'? Snatchin' what we want is our job! The one I'm payin' ya ta help me for. It's our life an' blood so why would ya want a break from it? Have ya gone numb in the skull, ya absolute bludger?”  
  
This was when there was no wheel gripped by Mako's hands to prevent them from wringing tight around Jamison Fawke's thin little neck and crush down until his knuckles blanched, and hold him off the ground. Off to the side, it ever-so-slowly dawned on McCree that he might be about to witness murder. He didn't step in. Roadhog would be doing him a favor. “Okay! O-Okay them was harsh words, I got it!” Jamison managed, his vision swimming when blood pounded in his ears, cheeks, face. Suddenly the godlike pressure was gone and he was back to the ground, sputtering, grumbling to himself. He wanted to make a comment on Roadhog's temperament but the words were stuck in his crumpled, gasping throat and only came out as phlegm. “Y'know, most folk would be fired fa' chokin' their employers out. 'Specially when they're meant to be a body guard.” He coughed, “Be glad I don't completely loathe ya.”  
  
Mako grunted, “I'm flattered.”  
  
“Entertainin' as that was, it didn't give me answers'. Guess I'm your fish in a bowl 'til ya don't want me no more, can I count on that?” The cowboy they'd forgotten about chimed from across the way.  
“Yeah, sure.” Jamison agreed with a nonchalant shrug like it was the most friendly, casual topic. And considering this department was their job, it truly was a typical brunch in the park to them. One where the topic was someone's ultimate fate and potential demise. “An' if ya keel over, we'll just flush ya down the john.”  
  
With matters settled, the pair reduced the Nutritious Breakfast to a bare pile of sticks they didn't bother disposing before closing shop, readying to hit the road. McCree still sat on the edge of the back of the truck, warming up. He contemplated if he could make a run for it again, or how far he'd get. But knew trying that was as stupid an idea as trying to take these two on in fisticuffs. When the junkers were ready to speed off after Jamison reattached the peg, Mako checked their fuel, McCree was shoved back inside, and pretty soon the motor was revving once, twice, and they were back on the road. Now that Jamison and Mako were crammed up front, the former madman fell uneasy with the tension they'd created and tried to shatter it once more.  
  
“I might not be big n' intimidatin', but you don't always remember who's in charge around here.”  
“You bein' 'in charge' don't mean you don't make some stupid fuckin' decisions, Fawkes. I'm here to protect you, no matter what it takes. If we keep runnin' around without givin' it a rest then we're gonna fuck somethin' up and suddenly we're on lockdown or dead,” Mako sprinkled the truth with no sugar. Jamison was quiet for an awful long time.  
“...So maybe a break from heists won't be so bad fer now, yeah? Then how 'bout we swing back around to the hideout, drop these goods off, plan out our next pilferin' an' make sure it's all laid out well enough so we don't go runnin' inta any cocky cowboys tryin' to block our way.”  
Mako's chuff sounded as though it carried the faintest smirk beneath his leather face, “That's better than I thought I'd get.”


End file.
